


points of starlight

by inamorromani



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, gonna update this as i go hehehe !, hashimada happenings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24123436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamorromani/pseuds/inamorromani
Summary: prompts from hashimadahappenings.tumblr.com <3 !
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 31
Kudos: 118





	1. I/winter

**Author's Note:**

> just my writings for hashimada happenings ! happy spring, i really want to finish any tithe... but im lazy and a perfectionist.... so enjoy these little drabbles for now

For Hashirama, the winters never seem to get easier. 

Madara finds him in his bedroom just after sunset, sprawled on the floor beneath a quilt of furs. _Rabbit furs,_ he notes fondly; Izuna had always refused to wear rabbit furs. He said they made him _weepy,_ God- winters never really get easier for Madara either. He misses Izuna more than usual, misses curling up with him in their bedroom, waking up shivering when Izuna steals the covers in his sleep... but oh, Hashirama is wonderful, warm and generous and loving even at his worst. Madara smiles to himself. 

He sets the scrolls he'd brought home in a neat little pile by the door, sinking quietly to his knees, trapping the hem of his tunic between his shins and the _tatami_ mats. 

Hashirama's hair is spilling out from under the quilt, catching squarish, golden lines of light that bounce off the little anthills of snow on the windowsill. It's swept back from his face, revealing the little creases in his brows, the fine lines where his nose scrunches up. If he's asleep, he doesn't stir; if he's awake, he does nothing to acknowledge Madara. 

"Hey," Madara says gently. Hashirama's face screws up a little as he closes his eyes against the dying light. Madara touches his shoulder lightly. 

"Hashirama," he says, a little urgently, "Have you been sleeping all day?" 

Hashirama draws the quilt up over the top of his head. Madara gives a long suffering sigh and gets to his feet. 

He's found that when Hashirama is like this, it's simply best to go about his business as usual. He puts water on for tea, ladles two tiny bowls of meat and broth and seeds for himself and Hashirama, tosses his tunic in the wicker basket in their bedroom that they use for dirty laundry. _Their bedroom_. Madara likes thinking of things as _theirs;_ the bedroom, the house, the village. Each other, too, he supposes. 

And the night passes like this: Hashirama slinks into the kitchen looking supremely miserable. Madara pulls his hair back for him when it falls into his bowl and kisses the crown of his head, tucks the fur quilt a bit tighter around Hashirama's shoulders. He leaves his tea to go cold and takes a shower- and eventually Hashirama joins him. 

To say that warm water was a blessing in the winters would have been an understatement. To say that Hashirama was a blessing would be an understatement. 

He's miles away from Madara, his expression vacant and questioning. He looks disoriented, shocked, outright lost as Madara pulls his hair back from his face and works oil through his shining hair- and Madara hates it, just a little bit. He hates how desperate, how _hopeless_ Hashirama looks, like if Madara touches him too roughly he might shatter into a million little pieces. He hates how hard it is to know, even now, if it's just the winter that's making him like this, or if there's something else Hashirama is keeping from him, a flashback, a nightmare, a "malfunction", as he likes to call it, with the _mokuton-_

Madara shudders. Malfunctions are the worst. It's very rarely anything grotesque, at least- but Madara never finds himself getting used to the absolute dread he feels when Hashirama peels his hand away from an injury and it comes away black with blood, the innocent, almost curious expression on his face in the second before he hits the ground. They usually resolved themselves, at least- except for the once. 

It was two, maybe three winters ago, and Hashirama had been standing in the kitchen staring into space one second, then vomiting into his hands and bleeding out of his nose- or maybe it was his mouth. Madara didn't really want to remember. 

That time, Tobirama had opened him up and found a tiny, half-dead tangle of _mokuton_ and _snakes_ of all fucking things somewhere between his stomach and his lungs ( _whatever the fuck that could mean,_ Madara thinks with a grimace).

Madara leads Hashirama out of their shower and eases him into a sitting position against the bathroom door. 

_Don't set yourself on fire to keep me warm._ Madara can practically hear Izuna's voice, even now. He dries his hair, wraps himself in his robe, rubs salves into his face that Hashirama swears will help fade all the little fine lines in his features. ( _Not that I don't love them, Madara!)_

Hashirama is still drip drying against the door by the time he finishes his nightly routine, and Madara smiles fondly. He kneels between his legs and starts working the towel Hashirama had wrapped around his shoulders through his hair. Hashirama closes his eyes and leans back slightly. 

He says something, very softly. Madara wrings a little section of his hair out with the towel. "Sorry?" 

"I'm sorry," Hashirama says. 

Madara laughs gently. His chest feels tight. "No," he says, trying to sound stern, "No, Hashirama, don't apologize." 

And Madara dresses him, trails little kisses over his dull, dark skin- across his chest, across his shoulders. Once they're both dressed, he crawls into Hashirama's lap and starts putting little braids in his hair, relishing in Hashirama's hands passing up over his hips, up over his waist, the way he locks his arms around Madara's middle and pulls him closer against his chest. 

_They hand't been together for very long when Hashirama had finally asked about Izuna. It was early winter then- Hashirama was only a little bit less himself than usual, sprawled out in Madara's lap, pressing experimentally against the fresh, pinkish bruises Madara had left on his neck._

_"How are we different?" Hashirama had asked. Madara had hummed in response- he was very much half-there, smoking through an overfull pipe._

_"How are who different?"_

_Hashirama took pause. "Izuna and I. How are we different?"_

_Madara tried to laugh. He blew smoke out of his nose. Hashirama was looking up at him, uncertain, entranced. "What," Madara said dryly, "Aside from the fact that I'm fucking you?"_ _Hashirama had made a sour expression at that, evidently a little wounded._

_"...Softer," Madara had said finally, blowing more smoke out of his nose, "He was... I don't know. He was little. You have this sturdiness about you that makes me feel very secure."_

_Somehow, Hashirama knew Madara was going to cry before he realized it himself._

_"Oh," Hashirama said breathily, "Oh, Madara. Oh, Madara."_

_And he was- Hashirama was so unrelentingly strong that it_ terrified _Madara, so unrelentingly strong until he wasn't._

"I'm sorry," Hashirama says again. 

Madara isn't sure when he fell asleep, exactly, but he's snuggled underneath the quilt with Hashirama, his arm tingling where Hashirama's head has evidently cut off his circulation. Madara groans. "'s okay." 

"No," Hashirama says shakily, "No, Madara, I'm so sorry, I can't-" he swallows and screws his eyes shut, looking very much like he might start crying. Madara squeezes his shoulders. "I can't fall back asleep, I think I fucked up my cicada rhythm." 

"Your-" Madara blinks at him, "Your cicada rhythm?"

Hashirama nods fervently. Madara doesn't have the heart to correct him- not now, but oh, how he's looking forwards to the summer now. _Hey, Hashirama, the circadians sure are loud tonight!_ Hashirama squeezes his bicep. Madara pets his hair. "Did you take- uh-" 

"Valerian?" Hashirama supplies. 

"Yeah. That." 

Hashirama shakes his head. Madara groans and rolls onto his side. He's too lazy to get up and light a candle, so he activates his sharingan to see instead. It's certainly not the most practical option, but this way he can still keep three quarters of his body underneath the quilt and tangled up with Hashirama, who, speak of the devil, is smacking his side. 

"Turn it off," he begs, "Madara, you'll get a headache." 

"Shhh," Madara shoves the little glass jar of valerian at him, "Quiet. Take your medicine." 

Madara hears a tiny rattling sound, and then Hashirama swallows dryly. "...Supplements," he corrects. Madara snatches the bottle back from him. 

"Hashirama, you need to take them with water." 

"I don't-" Hashirama coughs once, twice. 

Madara groans, and then slips out of bed to fill up one of the abandoned teacups by the side of the bed in the bathroom sink, leaving Hashirama and all of his warmth and his softness behind. 

Hashirama is outright beautiful. 

Madara likes the way his features go slack right before he falls asleep, the little, glittering spots of bliss that pass through his eyes as he fights sleep. He likes the way Hashirama says nonsensical things sometimes, the way he presses closer, the way he traces every groove and ridge of Madara's body in an unchanging pattern only the two of them could ever recognize. He's done it before on the battlefield, even, though usually when he's trying to close a particularly gory wound in Madara's side- but the gesture is never lost on him. Madara kisses his forehead tenderly. 

"Do you feel better, Hashirama?" 

"I feel wonderful." 

"I think that's the drugs talking." 

" _Supplements._ "

"Supplements," Madara laughs gently, and draws Hashirama against his chest. 

A few minutes pass, Hashirama's breathing growing progressively deeper and more even, and Madara thinks that maybe he's finally fallen asleep again, when- 

"Madara?" Hashirama says blearily. Madara hums. 

"Could you sing to me?" 

Madara snorts. "You're such a child." 

"It helps," Hashirama says honestly, "It's like- it's like magic." 

"A child," Madara repeats, gently. He clears his throat. 

Hashirama hums contentedly. Somehow, he manages to press himself closer, and drags his fingers leisurely over Madara's side, buries his face against his exposed chest. Madara smiles, closes his eyes, tries his hardest not to think about Izuna. 

But in the end, Hashirama makes it very easy not to.

_Illi shouftouh kabli ma tshoufak a'inaih  
_ _Omri dhyayea' yehshibouh izay a'alaya  
  
_ _Inta Omri illi ibtada b'nourak sabahouh  
Ad eyh min omri kablak ray w a'ada  
Ya habibi ad eyh min omri raah_

_Whatever I saw before my eyes saw you was a wasted life.  
_ _How could they consider that part of my life?_

_With your light, the dawn of my life started_  
_How much of my life before you was lost  
_ _It is a wasted past, my love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song madara is singing is "enta omri" by egyptian singer umm kulthum, who is immensely talented and widely beloved in arab culture ! obviously its a modern composition, but you know... its me, and i cling to my arab culture uchiha headcanons as tightly as i can... plus i thought the lyrics were beautiful, and so fitting !


	2. II/clan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for 11 may prompt, "clan" :)))

When the party is over, Izuna carries Madara home. 

Madara is blackout drunk and clinging to his waist, tripping every few steps over the overlong hems of his dress pants- which, Izuna notes with a grimace, are peach-colored and embellished with pearl beads. He bites his tongue to keep from saying _you're dressed like a Senju_ , or _Madara are those even yours_ \- because at the end of the day that's a question he doesn't really want his brother to answer. 

He's still wearing a silk sash in traditional Uchiha-blue and blood orange, lines of fine gold chain draped over his shoulders, around his arms, hanging loosely over his hips, connecting his nose ring to his earring and smearing the little white lines of paint on his face- and he's smiling, Madara is _smiling_ , smiling and slurring his words and clinging to Izuna with a ferocious strength. Izuna adjusts his arm around Madara's waist and pulls him closer, biting his lip to stifle a yelp when Madara grabs his ponytail for balance. 

"Oh," Madara says absently, and then promply launches into a bout of hysterical laughter. He stumbles again, losing his footing completely, and Izuna makes a startled sound as the two of them collapse into a heap on the ground. He crinkles his nose; Madara reeks of alcohol and smoking herbs and bonfire, and his laughter has reached a practically hysterical pitch.

Madara groans and rolls onto his side, bracing his forearms against the ground to try and ease his way back into a sitting position. Izuna scrambles to his knees and braces his hand solidly against Madara's half-bare chest to steady him. 

He wants to scream at him- wants to shake Madara's shoulders and ask _what the fuck is the matter with you what the fuck is wrong with you_ until he sobers up again, until he gets weepy and apologizes and pulls Izuna against his chest and kisses his hair and makes everything better because _Madara always makes everything better,_ and Izuna doesn't know how he does it, doesn't know how to take care of himself, doesn't know how to take care of their clan or how to take care of Madara. 

Madara makes a wounded sound and leans to the side. He claps a hand over his mouth and coughs violently, and a second later vomit starts dribbling out over his fingers. 

Izuna curses and hauls Madara to his feet again, dragging them in the direction of their house- if it can even be fucking called that, Izuna hates this compound the most because it's fucking old and decrepit and nothing is insulated so everybody just keeps warm with bonfires and drinking and dancing-

And when they get home, Madara collapses onto their bed and hangs his head between his knees, pushes his thick, shining, sweat-slick hair back from his face and it sticks to his bare back. Izuna locks the door behind them, boils a pot of water, lights a stick of incense, pulls the curtains shut so the light can't come through in the morning. 

Madara sits perfectly still while Izuna takes off his jewelry, watches him with feverish, glazed-over eyes and Izuna wants to _smack him upside the head,_ wants to understand _so badly_ what's wrong- but Madara just won't fucking _tell him_.

He gently sets the chain connecting Madara's earring and nose ring aside on the floor and starts to unwrap the portion of sash that passes across his breastbone. Madara's eyebrows come together, and he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, rests his hands over Izuna's wrists so gently that it makes Izuna take pause. 

"Do you hate me?" 

Izuna blinks. Madara looks away. 

"Oh," Izuna says softly, "Oh, Madara, _no_."

"I just-"

"Don't start," Izuna pulls the portion of the sash that's wrapped around his shoulder loose- or rather, he _peels_ it away, because the fabric is so saturated with alcohol that it clings to itself- "You're hurting, I know you're hurting. I just wish you weren't."

Madara just nods. 

When all is said and done, Madara is wrapped up in his _yukata_ and half-awake, sitting on the edge of their bed and staring into space. Izuna pours them each a cup of tea, helps Madara put his hair up- there's a raw, bloody patch of skin at the back of his neck, no doubt from drunkenly doing backbends far too close to the bonfire that he'll have to find salve for somewhere- and douses him in the little bottle of fragrance he keeps on his side of the bed. _It was a gift_ , Madara had said offhandedly when the bottle turned up after a recon mission one morning, _if you think about it too hard, your ears will start smoking._

Izuna drinks his tea slowly, and listens to the occasional snapping twig and drunken holler cutting like a bell across the compound. Madara's head is resting in Izuna's lap, his white facepaint in unneat streaks across their bedsheets. Again, Izuna wants to smack him upside the head-

But he doesn't. He abandons his teacup at the side of the bed and climbs under the covers. Immediately, Madara's arms come around his waist, Madara presses his face against Izuna's chest and holds onto him for dear life- so Izuna strokes his hair, and speaks softly to him until the two of them fall asleep. 

When Izuna is dying, Madara sings to him. 

He strokes Izuna's cheeks, holds his hands, changes the cold compress over his eyes every half hour or so until the light leaves them completely. 

Izuna never gives any indication that he can hear Madara, never gives any indication that he's listening, not really- but every so often, he would reach up and touch Madara's cheek, trail his fingers over the hollows under his eyes, quirk his lips up in a tiny, tired smile and say, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." 

And Madara wants so desperately to say _don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me_ , but it only comes out a little, broken prayer of _Izuna, Izuna, Izuna._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i shouldnt have put alla them smileys in the chapter notes huh... also for some reason the note from chapter I shows up here too... lets pretend we do not see it ladies


	3. III/mountains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably going to be a little nsfw dont look at me

Hashirama looks unfairly good in the Hokage robes. 

These festivals are hell, absolute _hell_ on Madara, who always feels like he's about to suffocate under his sash and _haori_ and the little cotton tassels cinched too-tight around his waist- and then there's Hashirama's hand on the small of his back, Hashirama who thinks he's being subtle, Hashirama drunk and admiring his earrings, Hashirama carting around carnival goldfish in little glass jars and Hashirama knocking over paper lanterns and spilling sake down the front of his robes. 

Well- no, they're not hell, not really. Madara still gets frustrated easily, still doesn't do too well with crowds or small children, still _clings_ to Hashirama like his life depends on it. He hasn't got a right to be flustered about Hashirama's hands on his waist when he's the one guiding them there, over and over and over again. 

The festivals are decidedly more pleasant than the war, though they're decidedly less pleasant than sneaking off to the river with Hashirama- just the two of them, a bottle of _sake,_ a little cloth satchel of smoking herbs and a vile of lube. 

Madara shudders, and Hashirama's hand passes over his hip. 

He tilts his head to the side and smiles. He's backlit by laterns from a little food stand, shining through the semi-sheer fabric lining his _atrocious fucking hat_ that he still manages to look good in somehow. His cheeks are flushed and no doubt sore from smiling, his skin creasing up in fine lines around his mouth. He almost looks older- _almost_ \- or he would if the sheer exhaustion of seeing their dreams to fruition had taken any sort of toll on him, physical or emotional. 

"Something on your mind, Madara?" 

Madara shrugs. "No," he says offhandedly, "I mean, I'm still thinking about those grey hairs I found this morning." 

Hashirama groans, sweeps his hair back with his free hand. "Madara, we're _thirty._ It's a wonder you hadn't found any sooner." 

"I've found plently," Madara snaps, "just never _nine at once_." 

Hashirama wraps his arm around Madara's waist and pulls him flush against his side, stumbling over himself a bit as he leans over to kiss the side of Madara's head. His hat knocks against Madara's cheek and lifts off his head a little, revealing an unsightly section of hair plastered over his temple with sweat. 

Hashirama smells like alcohol, and Madara barely has time to catch his hands and keep him from emptying the contents of the glass jar he's holding- which, Madara notes with amusement, consist of _water and a goldfish and expensive looking little azure-colored pebbles_.

"You're going to kill the poor thing," Madara admonishes, cradling Hashirama's hands in his. The goldfish wriggles around unhappily, dislodging some of the little azure-colored rocks at the bottom of the jar. Hashirama pouts- Madara is torn between meeting his pretty brown eyes or continuing to admire his oval-shaped fingernails and the way his robes fall elegantly over his powerful forearms-

"Am _not_ ," Hashirama protests, "I'm gonna put him in the koi pond in the courtyard."

"He's too small," Madara sighs, "Literally, he's too small. One of the koi is going to swallow him up without even meaning to. If you like him so much, you should keep him in the office." 

"But the office is so _depressing,_ Madara!" 

Madara pinches the bridge of his nose. "I spent my inheritance on _knick-knacks_ at that trading post because you insisted they would liven up the-"

"Those are _crystals_ , and they're functional-"

"They're knick-knacks," Madara corrects, resting his hands over the top of the jar, "They're beautiful, I know, and Mother Nature never ceases to amaze you, and they make you happy, so I'm glad I bought them." 

Hashirama's eyes light up at that, and Madara notices with only a hint of embarrassment that he's bent his knees so they can be eye-level with each other. It's not that their height difference bothers him- quite the opposite, in fact, he finds it strangely endearing- but they're in public, and Madara has a hard enough time as it is letting himself be adored. 

Carefully, Hashirama slides his opposite hand out from underneath the jar so it rests securely between Madara's palms- and then he kisses the corner of Madara's mouth, smiling against his cheek. 

Somebody wolf-whistles behind them, and Madara tries not to lose his composure. 

Hashirama lifts his hat off his head, and deposits it on Madara's with an undignified little giggle. Madara rolls his eyes. 

"It looks good on you." 

" _Looked_ good," Madara corrects, "It looked good on me when I was in my twenties." 

Hashirama makes another undignified sound and throws his arms around Madara's shoulders, steering them both in the direction of their house. "It still looks good!" he whines, "It always looks good." 

They spend a solid three or four minutes at the edge of the village commons arguing over whether or not to walk home or drop Hashirama's goldfish in the office. Madara thinks somebody photographs them- he's starting to think maybe they shouldn't have promised the villagers freedom of press- and Hashirama promptly starts panicking about his hair being a mess, and somehow they end up in front of the office anyways. 

They deposit the fish in the little glass terrarium Tobirama keeps on his desk- Madara _can't fucking wait_ to see the look on his face on Monday morning when he notices the goldfish that has mysteriouslly appeared in the tank- and curl up on the window seats in the reading room to wait for Hashirama to sober up. 

Madara rests his chin in his hands. He looks at the half finished carving of Hashirama's face aside his own and lets himself smile- the arts commission had done a fantastic job so far rendering his features, somehow managing to capture his gentleness and strength in unfeeling stone. And then there's his own face, carved into stone to the left of Hashirama's, looking uncharacteristically haughty and unkind. 

He really _was_ unkind- Madara doesn't think, even now, that he could find a single thing he liked about himself.

Hashirama nudges Madara's thigh with the side of his foot. 

His robes are slipping off his shoulders, exposing little patches of his undershirt and bare arms, his hair falling in front of one side of his face. He has one knee propped up, his hat balanced on top of it, the other leg outstretched and resting against Madara's. 

"I've never stopped feeling proud of you, Madara." 

Madara closes his eyes and nods. 

He hadn't hated being Hokage. He hadn't exactly loved it either. 

It had just been... _exhausting._ The work itself was fine, but it was the ordeal of being seen, of being known, of being carted around the country for meeting after meeting after meeting, and Madara downright _hated_ the formality of it, hated saying yes, hated saying no, hated the way Hashirama had to help him calm down for _hours_ after the fact wherever it was they were staying- but he loved the village. He loved Hashirama. It should have been enough.

It hadn't been. Madara had the world and it wasn't enough. 

"Madara," Hashirama says gently, "Madara, come back to me."

Madara blinks. "I never left." 

Hashirama laughs a little. "You did," he says softly, "Just for a second. It's alright."

Madara just nods- and then Hashirama is pulling him forward, and Madara is peeling back both of their robes, straddling Hashirama's thighs and kissing his throat. Hashirama squeezes his waist and Madara half-laughs, half-moans, grips Hashirama's arms like they're the only thing keeping him from floating off into space. 

Hashirama kisses his jaw. "Don't look at the mountain," he murmurs, "Don't think about it. Keep watching me."

And Madara does. Madara watches Hashirama shrug out of his robes, watches Hashirama lick his lips and furrow his brow in concentration as he half-drunkenly tries to untie Madara's _haori_ , watches his features pinch and unpinch as he pushes his hips up against Madara's.

 _It should have been you,_ Madara wants to say, _it should have been you,_ but Hashirama's hands are passing between his thighs and back up his chest, and suddenly Madara forgets he was ever looking at the mountain at all. 


	4. IV: this must be the place (edo tensei/izanagi)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi im izzy and i fckin love deep naruto lore... please talk to me in the comments abt deep naruto lore... also this is gonna be from hashiramas perspective which is always really challenging to write :33

Truth be told, Hashirama hadn't even really _remembered_ dying. There was an instant where something, somewhere cramped up, then a feeling like he'd had a rug pulled out from under his feet, and then a coldness, and then a warmth. 

If he had any memories of the hereafter, the 'other side' at all, they were fragmented at best- he flexes his fingers experimentally, turns his palms over to gauge the pallor of his skin, a little grey, stark against the terracotta tiles of the roof he was standing on. He remembers, distantly, that Madara had been there, at least very briefly. They'd been in a little meadow- well, more likely an infinite meadow, but Hashirama could only remember lying down in a nest of amber grains and tall, green grass- and Madara was very much half-there, almost as if there had been a veil of fine, shimmering silk between them. 

Hashirama squeezes his fingers again. He wants to grimace, but the muscles in his face don't respond the way he wants them to. 

Tobirama is standing a metre or two away from him, shifting his weight from foot to foot, hunched forward a little bit. Hashirama makes a shapeless noise, and then swallows dryly. 

They coulnd't have been dead for _that_ long, he reasons, judging by the states both of their bodies were in- but then again, the _edo tensei_ was a jutsu he considered nebulously effective at best. 

"Probably a henge." 

Hashirama looks up. Tobirama has a sour expression on his face, and he's running a hand up over his arm very slowly, almost mechanically. Hashirama grunts affirmatively. 

"You mean henges," he supplies. His voice comes out a little slurred, dry from disuse, and his mouth feels cottony. 

_Hey_ \- Hashirama blinks; he can hear Madara's voice somewhere, maybe in the back of his mind or maybe through that barely-visible veil of fabric- _hey, Hashirama, hey._

"It's that _shinobi_ Orochimaru, again," Tobirama says unhelpfully. Hashirama crinkles his nose. "What do you mean, 'again'?"

Tobirama shrugs. 

They're boxed in on all sides by four walls of glowing, lavender colored chakra- _barrier ninjutsu,_ Hashirama's mind supplies- but there's an unshakable feeling of being... _bound_ by something else, again, the feeling of being half-there. Hashirama feels an invisible hand pass over his shoulder and up his jaw through the veil, sees a glimmer of Madara's glassy, dead eye, and then a sharp, stabbing pain like somebody tugging out a handful of his hair. He winces.

He doesn't remember dying, but he's sure now: he remembers being dead-

Because Madara had been in the meadow with him, but he had been unreachable and sad, and Hashirama had been lying prone on his back with his head turned to the side just enough that he could watch Madara through the veil.

 _Probably a fair punishment_.

He hadn't meant to kill Madara. He really hadn't- but the _mokuton_ was imperfect, and sometimes it would just... _refuse_ to work. And then, in the meadow, every time Hashirama would try to apologize, all that would come out was _oh Madara, oh, Madara, have you ever seen the sky like this-_

They never had, of course. In the meadow, the sky was a slowly shifting palette of pinks and purples and oranges, decorated with points of starlight and a sliver of crescent moon. Madara would just give him a quizzical look and glance up over his shoulder, the eerie half-light catching the little streaks of silver in his hair, the white, dead tissue in his right eye. 

Hashirama wanted to apologize so _badly,_ but he could never get the words out, and he didn't know why.

At least he wasn't in pain- at least Madara wasn't in pain. 

Yes, Madara had been half-there, in some sense, but he was very lucid, emotive, animated like Hashirama always remembered him being. Hashirama was lucid enough that they could speak to each other- _Madara, are you hurting (I'm alright) Madara, can you hear me (I can hear you fine and you're annoying as ever) Madara, do you mean that (of course not, I love you-_ but he could never get himself to _say_ how sorry he was. He could feel his mouth forming all the right shapes, but all that came out was that irritating dub of his own voice, _have you ever seen the sky like this?_

He'd forgotten he'd been reanimated for a few minutes until he feels his fist connect solidly with somebody's jaw. 

_Sorry!-_ he tries to say, but nothing comes out-

And then his hands are snapping through seals mechanically, and he feels the roof give way underfoot, and then Madara's voice again at a hysterical pitch- _what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck-_ and an invisible weight pressing on his chest, bearing down on his hips, another glimmer of Madara's dead eye and blood-red _sharingan_ and then nothing.

A thick coil of wood from the forest emergence _jutsu_ clips him on the side. He manages a reflexive "-oof-" before the world slides out of focus again.

_The meadow is abnormally dark, the sky a wash of blue and violet and still glittering with moonshine and stars. The veil is gone and Madara is straddling his waist, cupping his face in his hands, his expression distraught, dark skin glistening with sweat._

_"You don't get to leave me yet," Madara says, his voice trembling, "You don't get to leave me like this."_

_Hashirama swallows around a mouthful of blood and bile. There's a piece of shrapnel from an earth release jutsu wedged uncomfortably in the center of his chest- oh so that's how I died, he thinks distantly- and an open wound in Madara's chest where his heart should be, and Hashirama reflexively reaches up to heal it._

_Madara swats his hand away. "It's alright," he says tightly, "leave it. Focus on staying with me."_

_Hashirama feels like he's been punched in the stomach. He makes a pained sound._

_"Ah-" he inhales sharply. Madara's hands travel down his jaw, over his chest. He stretches his fingers out and then pulls them together, almost like he's trying to hold the wound shut._

_"Have you ever seen the sky like-"_

_"Shut up about the sky-" Madara's voice cracks, "Stop talking about the fucking sky."_

Hashirama makes a strangled sound. 

"I'm sorry," somebody hisses. 

He blinks. "Oh." _Sarutobi,_ his mind supplies helpfully. "No," he says tightly, "that's alright."

He looks down- there's a greyish shadow between their two chests, wrenching _something_ out from his stomach through his armor, but Hashirama can't feel a thing.

"Hey," he says aloud. Sarutobi glances up at him. _Sheesh,_ Hashirama thinks, _I must have been dead for a while._ "Madara," he continues, grimacing, "I can't die twice, can I?"

 _What the fuck,_ Madara's voice calls from somewhere over his shoulder, _no, not without something like the Izanagi you can't- Hashirama-_

Hashirama blinks again, and cocks his head to the side. 

Sarutobi is looking up at him through narrowed eyes, sweat beading on his brow. Hashirama glances over his shoulder in time to see a portion of Tobirama's arm crumble against the terracotta tiles. _So I was right about the henges, at least_ , he thinks. And then-

"Wait," he says distantly, "Wait, Madara, what's the _izanagi_ -" 

And then it's dark again, and Hashirama can't feel a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehehehehheheheh


	5. V: bonsai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably going to be pure fluff to atone for days two and four lolol

It always takes Madara a few minutes to adjust to the sheer level of humidity in Hashirama's greenhouse. 

For as long as Madara can remember, it's been widely accepted that the Uchiha were originally from Wind Country, where the air was dry and the temperatures fluctuated wildly from day to night- and so _genetically_ , they didn't do well with humidity. Madara doesn't know a fucking thing about genetics. He just thinks the greenhouse is far too humid. 

But what matters is that Hashirama is there, bent forward at the waist with a pair of tiny silver scissors and his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. His skin looks especially dewey today- Madara doesn't want to know how long he's been in here with his plants- and his hair is damp, clinging to his cheeks where it slips out of his ponytail. There's a little bit of curl to it, too, which definitely indicates that Hashirama has been in here a while. 

Madara clears his throat. Hashirama's concentration is unwavering. 

"Just a second," Hashirama murmurs, "I'm almost done." 

Madara drops into a wooden bench against the edge of the greenhouse. It creaks dangerously, and then steadies itself- Madara shudders. The _mokuton..._ just weirds him the fuck out sometimes.

"Sorry," Hashirama says softly, "I've never worked with a pomegranate tree before. I don't want to mess it up." 

"I doubt you will," Madara says offhandedly. He sets the parcel he'd been carrying on the bench beside him, lifts his coffee cup to his lips and blows on it a little. 

He glances up at the skylights. The sun is just starting to set, casting orange and lavender phantoms over the heavy glass windows, eclipsed by broad, green leaves of every shape and shade imaginable. 

"You sure have a lot of plants," Madara murmurs. Hashirama laughs at that. 

"Well, yeah," he says sheepishly, "I mean- I don't know. Gardening's kind of my thing." 

"That's an understatement," Madara says with a smile. 

He hears a metallic snipping sound, a rustle of leaves, and then Hashirama's tiny, defeated sigh. He glances over his shoulder. Hashirama is slipping his bonsai scissors back into his apron with one hand, fixing his hair with the other. 

Madara cranes his neck to look at the pomegranate tree. "It looks fine." 

"It's uneven," Hashirama huffs. He reaches behind him and unties his apron, then drops down onto the bench beside Madara and folds it up in his lap. 

He throws a leg across the abandoned parcel and rests his foot on Madara's thigh, leaning back against the wire armrest and sighing dramatically. Automatically, Madara reaches out and pats his knee, angling his body towards Hashirama. He takes a sip of his coffee, gives Hashirama an appreciative once-over. 

He's beautiful. He's always beautiful, unfairly fucking beautiful. Madara watches him wipe sweat from his forehead and then scowl at the shining heel of his palm, tug his hair out of its ponytail and pile it into a bun- which immediately slides off the crown of his head and threatens to pull itself loose. 

Madara takes another sip of his coffee. "Done for the night?" 

"I don't know," Hashirama sighs, "I mean- I could be. The plants kind of take care of themselves after a certain point." 

"You mean the _mokuton_ takes care of them," Madara scoffs. Hashirama hums thoughtfully.

He grunts softly and pushes himself up off the armrest, lifting himself over the abandoned parcel and depositing himself in Madara's lap. Madara makes a startled sound- coffee sloshes up over the edge of his mug and scalds his hand a little- and then the _mokuton_ comes up in a little spiral and lifts the mug out of his hand.

Hashirama kisses his cheek and then slumps against his shoulder, wrapping his arms around his back. Madara pats his waist. 

"Hey," Hashirama says simply. 

Madara scoffs again. "Hey," he parrots. 

Hashirama sits back on his heels a little, and Madara stifles a groan as Hashirama's weight bears down on his lap. " _Fuck_ -" Madara hisses. Hashirama hums contentedly and rolls his hips forward again. Madara lifts a hand to his mouth and bites his knuckles.

"Wait," he says softly, "I almost forgot-"

He reaches around Hashirama blindly for the parcel, then thrusts it against his chest. 

Hashirama blinks at him. 

"Happy- er- happy half-birthday," Madara says lamely, "or- you know, almost-half-birthday."

Hashirama smiles appreciatively and kisses the tip of his nose, keening a little when Madara draws him closer. 

Madara barely registers Hashirama's excitement about the new shears between Hashirama's lips on his, Hashirama's hands on his face, Hashirama's weight in his lap. He gives himself pause, just long enough to be adored. 


End file.
